We All Fall Down
by Maestus
Summary: It'll only take a little more; a little more and then Jim will be back and everything will be right again. Or so Sebastian keeps telling himself. It's rather hard with the voice whispering in his ear that Jim's dead even though he knows Jim's not dead because he's seen him with his own eyes and your eyes don't lie to you, right?


**And I'm back with another angsty Sherlock fic; surprise surprise! Warnings for slash (past Moriarty/Moran), violence, torture, mild gunplay and suicide. This is a oneshot**

_italics _**are thoughts/ speech **** ****_bold italics_ **are the equivilant of normal italics

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He's humming as he picks up the pistol, some lilting tune that he doesn't really recognise but figures is just another one of those operatic numbers Jim loves so much. The weapon is a cute little thing, not suitable for anything other than close range, and he holds it with something that is possibly disdain but then again could be acceptance of his lack of supplies; he's no longer sure of emotions. Truthfully, he'd rather be on the safe end of a rifle but it'll do for the job he's going to put it to (and anything beats the knives; who wants to use _them _anyway?).

The smooth metal is cold against his palm, the weight a comfortable one, and he sighs in contentment at this brief return to normality which takes him back to a time where everything made sense. He has to admit he kind of sees what Jim saw in this state of existence, in this quiet madness. It's liberating; it's grants him a freedom of the like he has never known before, gives him the ability to do whatever he feels like and suffer no consequence from a mind he no longer knows. Once sanity was his friend, his protection against an employer who held no grasp on reality; now it has dropped his hand and lost him amongst the crowd, allowing him to slip into the obscurity that was insanity.

He wonders when he himself let go of that hand.

The man that sits in the chair before him stares with wide tearful eyes, face streaked with blood and grime and the lines of fear, limbs trembling with slight terror. Well, _he _says sits but others would debate over whether being tied down to the piece of furniture constitutes as sitting, a word which implies there was some degree of consent in the action. Never mind though; that sort of thing matters not, another trivial matter he has been set free from.

The police officer in front of him trembles as he pulls up a chair of his own, straddling it and simply watching the various emotions flit across the man's face. It's fascinatingly beautiful, a work of art in human form, and he wonders why he has never taken the time to appreciate it before.

_Because that was then and this is now and everything changed after the Incident _his mind supplies but he quickly shuts it up because the Incident is sacred territory, the land where no one is welcome. He briefly muses over the sheer madness of this statement but soon dismisses it, having made peace with his lot long ago.

He fingers the gun slowly, running thoughtful hands across the barrel as he continues to stare at his captive; contemplating, musing, plotting. He doesn't even know who the office is; he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, the unfortunate victim of this all consuming madness that demanded sacrifice for every moment of its existence. He wonders what it will take this time, which act of undeniable wickedness would bring him back for even just a minute. Lately, it has been becoming more and more difficult, a nigh impossible task to manage, and he hasn't laid eyes on him for so long that he's beginning to forget his appearance. It's all slipping away into the ether of his thoughts, swirling into that hungered black hole.

He wishes it would stop, just for a moment. He wishes he could escape from the ever tightening chokehold and throw himself back into the arms of lucidity once again.

But like he says, that was then and this is now and besides, the madness is rather enjoyable, once you get used to it.

Abruptly, he changes tune, starting up on a faster jerkier tune, watching the changes in demeanour it brings to his reluctant guest. He rises on delicate feet, twirling the gun between his fingers, and approaches the officer, leaning down to whisper delicately into his ear.

"You need to learn to relax more my friend,"

He brings the gun up to the man's neck, running across the pale flesh in lazy swirls, pushing against the pulsing throb where the jugular lies, smirking at the panicked bob of the officer's Adam's apple. He takes it lower, gazing in wide eyes satisfaction at the effect it has, laughing as a flush spreads across the policeman's face and his eyes try to focus on anything but the gun. Really, he should just enjoy it while it lasts; after all, it won't last for long.

There's still no sign of _**him**_; maybe he will need to use the knives after all.

Mr Officer audibly sighs in relief when the gun is withdrawn and isn't that a hoot considering what's coming?

"Do you like knives?" he singsongs, delicately sliding one out from its hiding place. "I don't and Jim isn't too fond of them either– he prefers semtex – but they do have their uses. They're good for carving...Jim liked carving..." He tails off in contemplation, staring down at the cold sharpened lump of metal, wishing it gave him the same satisfaction as a gun. It doesn't and he knows it never will but he continues anyway, the desire to see _**him **_growing in magnitude, like an addiction he can never escape.

He begins with the ear; it's easy enough to reach with minimal squirming and doesn't bother him as much.

He's always known though that the place to start though is the tongue. That way they cannot scream.

There is blood and it flows between his fingers like water, forming crimson rivulets across the light tan of his skin. He admires it for a moment whilst Mr Officer howls like a lost babe, fighting to pull his hands loose so as to clutch at the gaping hole where there should be an ear. _Where is the dignity in this?, _his mind asks scornfully before he can silence it and he frowns, tilting his head to the side. _You used to be brilliant; none of this messy stuff – look what you've fallen to. _And he does look and oh how he wishes he couldn't but when sanity decides to return, it gives him no warning, no time to prepare.

But it's a good sign for what it means because it only happens when _**he **_is near.

Jim is coming. He smiles.

"_My, my Sebby; having fun, are we?" _The door opens as the consulting criminal steps in, grinning wildly at the scene he finds. "_Someone's been busy." _He dances over to where the police officer sits, cupping the man's chin pouting when he receives no reaction.

"_How badly did you break him, Sebby? You know they should be more responsive than this!"_

"I barely did anything," Sebastian grumbles, tossing the knife from hand to hand as his boss proceeds to skip over to the gun and examine it, a smirk now playing at his lips.

"_You were using __**this**__? Now what was it you said to me; oh yes, 'If you're going to use a gun then you might at least use a real one'. Do you remember telling me that, Sebby?"_

"Yes; if I hadn't then you would have went out with a gun that would have been less useful than an inflatable dartboard."

Mr Officer is gazing at him like he's crazy; he shoots him a glare and then turns back to Jim, not really caring about his captive any longer. "Anyway, where have you been boss? Haven't seen you in ages?"

There is a light shrug, the criminal not really showing much attention to his sniper. "_Oh, you know, about. Here and there, doing different things, nothing of much importance." _

Is it Sebastian's imagination or is that blood at the back of Jim's head? He shudders as the Incident fights to rise to the surface of his mind, pushes back memories of a hospital roof and fraying hopes and of a heartbreaking cry that even now refuses to leave his thoughts in peace. Jim notices this – he always does – and frowns, tilting his head to the side.

"_There's something __**off, **__"_he declares, ", _something not __**right." **_His hands wander to the back of his head thoughtfully – _No, not there!, _Sebastian's mind screams but it is no use. He starts forward, vaguely hearing the captured officer make a noise of surprise, his hands extended. Jim is turning and no, this isn't real; he knows it can't be real because this never happened, because there should not be a gaping bloody hole where Jim's mouth should be. The Incident is surfacing; he can't suppress it – make it go away!

There is a bang; his hands fly to his stomach where blood is blooming like a scarlet flower opening its petals with pain as its accompanying symphony. He gasps, wonders where it came from and when the door opened – wait, Jim opened it, right? But Jim's gone – he can't see him anywhere – and the policeman is somehow on the floor, gun in hand. His right arm trembles slightly; his left is pressed up against the gaping wound on the side of his head but Sebastian cannot bring himself to worry how the man freed himself, not when Jim has disappeared.

There are people all around now, people shouting at him and pointing weapons at him but he doesn't care because Jim's missing _Jim's dead _and nothing matters until he reappears _but he won't because he's lying in a coffin 6 feet under _and won't his mind just bloody well _**shut up?**_ And when did he end up on the floor, arms hugging his torso as if that could somehow take the pain away?

Where's Jim? _Jim's dead. _What happened? _**It **__happened. Blood, guns, a body sprawled across the pavement. Hadn't meant to see; should have kept away like he said; no, __**had **__to see, was no choice in that matter. Body sprawled upon the roof, blood forming a halo, gun still clasped in that limp hand. _No! He doesn't want to remember; doesn't want to see it all again! _But you have to; no choice, Sebby, no choice. Do you remember the smell, Sebastian; do you remember the reek of blood left to clot in the sun or the hole where the back of his head used to be? Snappity snap snap; is that a mind I hear breaking? Ha; he fell, I fell, you fell; we all fall down! _

Now even in his mind things make no sense and he can't avoid them because the walls have finally snapped and he's falling, falling to join Jim in hell or wherever it is they're destined for and he's reaching for that pistol _stupid officers haven't moved it; think he's incapacitated _and it's in his grip _they're screaming at him to PUT THE GUN __**DOWN**_ and...

It's resting against his temple, the smooth metal cold against his skin, the weight comfortable within his grasp, and he sighs in contentment at the sense of normality. No more memories, no more madness, no more half-recalled dreams of a man lying spread-eagled on the roof with the back of his head blown away. He was going to reclaim sanity.

He laughs as he pulls the trigger.

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**This was partially inspired by a beautiful fic I beta-read for OperationFailed. Thoughts and con-crit are much appreciated**


End file.
